


Really Drag It Out

by DysfunctionalDevilry



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Come Eating, F/M, Frottage, Grinding, Hair-pulling, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27232411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DysfunctionalDevilry/pseuds/DysfunctionalDevilry
Summary: Extremely smutty follow up to @sharedwithyou's Slow HandsMassage Therapist!Cole and Y/N pick up where they left off in the last fic. Horny as hell and dancing around the fact. (Not for long)
Relationships: Cole (Dragon Age)/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharedwithyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharedwithyou/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Slow Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27223816) by [sharedwithyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharedwithyou/pseuds/sharedwithyou). 



> Second ever smut and un-beta'd!! Be nice I'm fragile!! (I'm kidding. Mostly.)
> 
> @sharedwithyou suggested I write a smutty follow up for Slow Hands and i mean Hell To The Fuck Yeah I Will - Hope you like it!! Thanks for inspiring my first fic in literally 4 years!!
> 
> (Might be a smidge ooc tbh - 4 years is not an exaggeration)

This is happening.

This is actually happening? Is it? Oh fuck.

Staring at the door you know he’s somewhere behind you can feel your heart up in your throat, kicking you like a jackrabbit with how fast it’s going. “You can do this Y/n.” Its murmured, but you needed to hear it out loud. Needed to make it feel true.

_You can do him Y/n. It! Do it! Fuck!_

Okay maybe your heads in the gutter. Maybe you can’t stop thinking about his hands and maybe it’s becoming a problem. They’re so much bigger than yours, so much warmer. So much more attached to the rest of him. The flush you can feel burning your cheeks would make this all so much more embarrassing if you hadn’t been wearing the feeling all week.

 _Reach for the door Y/n._ You think to yourself, but your hands don’t move. You’re definitely late for your appointment. Would he worry? Is he freaking out too? Fuck.

You have to shut your eyes to nut up enough to grab the handle and head inside, your other hand clutching your purse like a lifeline, a purse that looks so much less silly on you than it does on him. Would he let you buy him coffee to make up for last time? Could he even let you do that? You’re dragging your feet and overthinking this, but you’re inside now and this is a routine you’ve done before. Eight times before, nine now, so you smile at the receptionist and she let’s Cole know you’re here.

“It’s not like you to be late Y/n.” It’s banter, you know that, but your cheeks burn hotter and you nervously scuff the toe of your sneakers on the ground.

“I’ve been pretty distracted, sorry.” The receptionist’s always been cool and she laughs it off, but she’s looking at you funny. She’s got a mental horny detector doesn’t she? She knows I wanna ride her boss like- Nope, don’t make it weird. Come off as calm not desperate-

“Y/n.”

Cole’s sticking his head out of the door to the back where they keep all their torture devices, helpful ones but that doesn’t make them suck less, and your heart does another uncomfortable backflip in your throat when you see he’s smiling. It’s a tiny thing, but that’s a lot even for him. Permanently stoic. Super hot.

It’s been an uncomfortable amount of time since he said your name and you pray you’re the only one who noticed as you follow him back. “So…” It’s almost a struggle to look at him, too close to looking at the sun. Which is almost as hot as he is with his hair pushed out of the way of his eyes. They’re too blue to be human.

He’s probably some kind of angel.

A sexy one.

Might be why his hands are magic.

“Where do you want to start today?”

You nearly jump and he sounds too normal, too unaffected. It takes a lifetime of self control not to stammer when you respond, “I- My wrists have been acting up. Overtime.”

He nods and you think you must have imagined your last session, or read into it too much, or whacked your head on a rock and you aren’t really here and-

He grabs your wrist in his hand. His warm hand. And pulls you close to him. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. And your next breath in is a sharp one. “Let me help.” And he always does. Always helps. So you nod and let him pull you further into the room. Let him sit you on the massage table. Let him stand between your parted legs and lean in close. “Does it ache?”

 _Fuck yeah it aches._ You can feel your goddamn pulse between your legs and you wonder how you’re still breathing. It feels like you’ve been edging yourself for an entire week waiting to see him, something you very _distinctly_ haven’t done. But your hands aren’t like his. They aren’t warm, and big, and strong. You know all the places that feel good for you but he can make it hurt so good.

That shouldn’t be so hot.

So you nod your head, and let out a shaky breath. “I want you.” Your eyes dart over in the direction you know the receptionist is. There’s walls and doors between you but you still hastily add, “To help me. It feels good when you help.” And then you look up at him from beneath your lashes. See the rise and fall of his chest. He’s breathing as fast as you are.

His hand is still wrapped around your wrist and he squeezes gently, leaning in, and you can feel his breath ghost across you neck as he says in a low voice, “Your pulse is fast.”

And it is, and you're simultaneously mortified and the most turned on you've ever been.

“Let me send you to another therapist.”

It feels like a punch to the gut.

“Cole-”

“Say yes.” His voice is firm, and you can’t say no to him, not when he’s standing between your legs, not when his voice sounds so good.

Not when his hands are on you.

You hesitate, because of course you do, therapy is the worst part of your week but Cole is the best.

But he doesn’t want to see you anymore.

“Yes.”

He drops your wrist and heads for the door, his ridiculously, unfairly, long legs making the walk shorter than it would’ve been for you and you sit there, stunned. And horny. And thoroughly humiliated.

You take this moment alone to tip your head back and blink away the tears. As humiliating as it is being sent away you know it would haunt you for the rest of your life if you actually _cried_ about it.

Well, in front of him at least.

So you count down from ten. You calm your breathing. You dig your nails into your hands and you mentally resolve to bitch about him with your best friend later.

And then he’s back. And he’s still all long legs and strong hands and hair that looks so soft and so good to pull on and you’re as sad as you are pissed as you are horny when he hands you a referral.

“Thom Rainier has a sliding scale.”

You look at the paper in your hand and give him one curt nod, “He’s just down the street. Convenient.”

Cole steps towards you and you scoot back on the table and press your knees together. Your glare could probably do more damage than a dragon and you know it isn’t fair to project your feelings onto him like this, but the look of confusion on his stupid perfect face, and the adorable crinkle in his brow is fueling that flame.

He's staring at you, like he's trying to look through you to see something that isn't on the surface and then the confusion on his face just melts away, which is odd to watch since yours is only growing, and he steps close again. The table’s pretty high so his thighs are pressed to your knees. “Y/n.” His voice is low. Soothing. It pisses you off.

“Cole.” Your voice is clipped and you can feel yourself bristling and a smile grows on his face and he leans in.

“You aren’t _my_ patient anymore.” His hands land on your knees and slowly, agonizingly, slide up your thighs.

“Believe it or not Cole, I had in fact noticed-”

His hands, those perfect evil hands, slide between your thighs and with a strength that doesn’t surprise you in the least considering the way his biceps mercilessly strain his poor helpless sleeves, he pulls your thighs apart and drags you towards him.

“I can’t date my patients Y/n.”

Your eyes are wide, your mouth has fallen open, and your panties are _soaked_.

His poor helpless neckline is going to be as trashed as his sleeves but you don't care at all as you tug him down by it, slamming your lips to his desperately. They’re soft and warm like his hands and he groans into your mouth, but those perfect _evil_ hands move up to your face. They cup your jaw. They pull you back.

You want to argue, you want to be a brat and throw a temper tantrum and you want to kiss him but his words interrupt your train of thought as he presses his hips closer to yours, one hand sliding down. Those fingers that you can feel yourself falling for gently trace the length of your neck, slide down past your collarbone, ghost past your chest, down the middle, _like a fucking tease_ , and keep going until he reaches your hip.

His fingers dig in tight and he somehow pulls you closer to him, your cunt pressed against his cock through too many clothes for either of your tastes.

And then he _drags_ his cock against you, a slow grind that digs the seam of your jeans against your clit and you want to cry out with the unfairness of it all when he presses his lips to your neck and whispers, “It’s better when it’s slow.”

And you’re too wet. The friction is all wrong, it’s not enough to get you anywhere but it’s definitely enough to drive you mad. “Cole.” It’s a whimper, and a prayer, and a curse all in one syllable. And he shudders against you, never faltering in that slow steady grind against you.

His hands are on the move again, the one on your jaw moving down, slowly of course, the fucker, until he reaches the edge of your top, tracing his fingers lightly back and forth along the neckline. You arch your back, wanting his hands on you, wanting his fingers in you, wanting his-

He kisses you. And it’s not slow. It’s as desperate as you feel, hot and wet and soft like you are and you moan against his lips, a sound he returns with no hesitation. A sound he repeats when you bite him.

You grab his hair, keeping him close, wanting to drag him in, drag him _under_. Drown him in this feeling that’s been eating you for weeks. And he _moans_. Louder than the others and accompanied with a full body shudder that’s going to feed your ego for at least a month.

“Slow-”

You kiss him.

“ _Y/n_ -”

You pull his hair.

“God-”

You wrap your legs around his hips and rock yourself with his movements.

_Slowly._

His hand goes back up to your collarbones and he pushes you flat to the table, breathing like a broken man, and then for some god forsaken _inexplicable_ reason, slows down.

You choke out a moan and try to move your hips against his, drag your soaking wet cunt, which you desperately hope hasn’t soaked an embarrassing spot through your jeans, against him.

And then the evil perfect hand that isn’t occupied with pinning your shoulders to the table drifts it’s way down your body, presses into your hips, and pins you there too.

And you just have to take it.

And god this is the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

“Cole, _please_.”

His thumb reaches down just enough to pop the button on your jeans and you nearly sob when you say his name again, “ _Cole_.”

He drags down the zipper.

You pant and say his name.

He pulls back from you, easily breaking away from you legs as shaky as they are and both hands pull your jeans down your hips.

“You have to be quiet.” Cole presses himself against your back and the hard press of his cock against your ass has you arching again.

You can’t help but think it’s a bit rich coming from the most vocal man you’ve ever heard.

Which like the rest of him is really fucking hot.

“Put your hands on the table.” You do, you don't even hesitate and your heart leaps at the way he says it, and he wraps an arm around your waist, grinding himself up against you from behind before his other hand reaches down to run his fingers over your panties.

You’ve long since soaked them through and now both of you know it. He presses his face between your shoulder blades and groans like it hurts.

You groan like he’s just found your clit and immediately figured out just the pressure you like.

Because he has.

One hand on the table for balance your other reaches back to grab his hair, even softer than it looks, and you can’t help but laugh.

“What is it?”

His voice sounds wrecked and confused and all you can manage in response is a shaky, “Magic hands.” And he laughs against your shoulder blades.

“You’re _so_ wet.”

You tense up immediately, thighs trying to slam together but held apart by one of his, quickly jammed between them. Somehow in all your fantasies about him, in all the precious few times you’ve heard that voice and loved every second, it never occurred to you that he might talk during sex.

It’s _filthy._

You almost cum.

He tugs your panties to the side and thrusts two fingers in. There’s a bit of a stretch, his hands are massive and lovely and evil, but you’re _dripping_ down your thighs and it feels so right and good and-

You cum.

The feeling washes over you, warm and tingly, sweeping down your arms and across your chest and it’s intense and he keeps thrusting his fingers, keeps grinding the palm of his hand against your clit, keeps rubbing his cock against your ass. You’re helpless to do anything but ride it out, take as many as he gives you and love every second of it.

And it’s slow. Excruciatingly slow, feeling every single last centimeter of his fingers drag their way out of you, thrust their way in. It nearly suffocates you with how intense it is, how much more there is to feel when it’s slow.

Or maybe just when it’s him.

“ _Cole_.”

It’s a broken thing, a choked off sob, desperate and shaky as the rest of you and his hips stutter.

His fingers pull out and you can’t help the broken moan that escapes you, can’t stop the way your hand leaves his hair to grab his wrist, clinging to it like a liferaft in a storm, and he spins you around lifting you back onto the table with ease.

One of those unforgivably talented hands reaches down to palm his cock through his jeans, “Let me-”

You can tell by his inflection it was going to be a question and you don’t even let him finish it before you say, “Yes.”

And then he pulls his cock out.

And fuck it’s good.

You reach down to your jeans where they’re trapped halfway down your thighs and claw at them, desperate to pull your legs apart, to let him in, but he sees a quicker way and in a second you’re on your back again, both legs straight up in the air, ankles hooked over one of his shoulders and he’s sliding his cock between your thighs. Fucking them. _Slowly_. The sound he makes is choked off but it’s his face you love.

He looks so fucked out. His hair is a mess, something you’re incredibly proud of and his lip is bitten to hell and back, more than you’d done, and you can’t help but wonder how much more vocal he’d be if the two of you weren’t practically in public.

Your thighs clench together at the thought and he groans, turning his face towards your ankles and pressing his forehead against your legs.

“ _So wet_ -”

“Wetter inside.”

He nods his head against your legs and his eyes are pressed tight shut. For someone as ridiculously hot as he is you get the feeling he doesn’t do this a lot. Which is the worlds loss considering how fucking good he is.

He reaches down to grab his cock, running his hand over it a couple times like he can’t help it, and then he presses in.

The blunt tip feels too good, the whole length of him feels too good, and even with your thighs pressed as tight together as they are the slide is easy. Not surprising considering he’s had you dripping down your leg this whole damn time.

And of course.

It’s slow.

The press in. The way he slides close to you, inside of you, deeper than anybody else had, or at least that’s what it feels like. It knocks the breath out of you.

And then he’s fully seated. Buried to the hilt and visibly shaking, lips slightly parted as he gasps and _you get it_. You feel the same.

He looks _good_ like this. When you’re wrapped around his cock and he’s barely holding it together, and you wonder if he thinks the same. If you’re as fucked out as he is, dripping and panting and wide eyed beneath him. 

He looks down, locks eyes with you, and moans, quickly stifling the sound by biting his lip again and you have to clap both hands over your mouth not to send the sound right back at him.

When he starts to move your eyes roll back and you clench down on him, not that it changes anything, too fucking wet to do anything about the slow steady drag out of you, all the way to the tip before he presses deep again.

And keeps going.

Over and over.

And you’re helpless. Riding it out, rocking your hips, and if you weren’t so wrecked, so stuck in the moment, feeling every second of every stroke of his perfect cock inside of you you’d marvel at his self control. His ability to stay so fucking slow. You’ve never had the patience, the self control. Always rushing everything, every aspect of your life a coffee fueled race against nothing and nobody. But _goddamn_ if you aren’t starting to see the appeal of slowing down to appreciate the moment.

His magic hands cling to your legs, fingers sliding up and down them, tracing the seam of your thighs, both drifting down, as slow as everything else he’s doing, and then those fingers are on your clit and you’re focus is pulled to that one spot, to the little circles he makes and the drag of his cock and the filthy sound you make, and you know you’re going to leave a puddle on this torture table if you haven’t already.

He touches you. His other hand moves freely wherever he feels like. All over your body, lingering wherever he goes. It’s like he’s trying to map you out, to memorize every inch of you beneath him.

His fingers press against your lips, dip between them, and thrust when you suck. They trace your jaw and brush across your cheekbones. Brush down your body only to head back up, underneath your shirt to your chest.

And he’s slow. He touches you over your bra at first, feather light and tracing the edges of the cups, and then pulling them down, thumb brushing over your nipples with no hesitation, pinching then between to fingers, feeling how soft you are. Soft and warm like his hands.

And he never lets up on your clit. You’re a shuddering whimpering mess under him, back arching arhythmically as you choke out his name, smothered beneath your fingers. And he can’t keep his eyes off of you “Y/n. Are you-”

Your fingers pull away from your mouth and you cut him off, “Yeah.” You’re going to cum again. Wrapped around his cock and shaking and moaning and basically in _public_. So therapy’s been pretty good today.

He smiles at you again and pulls his hand from your chest, reaching out to grab your wrist and pull it towards him. His thumb flicks across your clit just right at the exact same moment he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist and you fall apart, your free hand going back to your mouth to smother the gasping moan of his name that the full body waves of _Hell Yeah_ pull from you.

He cums too, fingers grasping your wrist so tight it almost hurts and bent damn near in half, taking your legs down with him which somehow makes your orgasm even better, condenses the feeling of pleasure so it radiates out from your core and by the time he’s recovered enough to pull out of you, a whimper dragged from your lips as his cock pulls free, you’re a shuddering mess.

He’s breathing like he ran a marathon and he pulls himself up onto the table next to you, a tight fit, and throws his arm over you, pulling you close, his other hand reaching up to tangle in your hair. “Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we could grab a bite?”

You grin, recognizing your own words and for a second you humor the idea of answering the way he did, but you aren't that cruel and you press a kiss to his lips. A kiss he gladly responds too, though he obviously struggles not to grin through the whole thing. “Sounds good.”

Then his receptionist walks in.

Both of your pants are shoved down your thighs and both of your cum is dripping off the side of the table.

_Shit._


	2. Okay, My Way It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this is for the ever so sweet @sharedwithyou
> 
> If you haven't read chapter two of Slow Hands you probably won't be getting the best version of this chapter so definitely check out @sharedwithyou's work.

“Wait.”

He looks at you in surprise as you push both hands against his chest, shoving him away before stumbling towards the window beside the door. A massive thing that let’s in tons of light, and as much as you’d love to see him like this you’ve already been caught with your pants around your thighs once today and it was only kind of funny. So you draw the blinds, accidentally pulling the wrong string at first and then getting it right, snapping them closed so quickly they shake, and when you turn around you can tell Cole’s realized what you were doing, because the room is dark, the other windows curtains shut and he’s lit only by the light coming between the slats. And he looks like a work of art.

You come together in the middle of the room, both of you rushing, both of you desperate. Making up for nine weeks of lost time as you’re pushed up against the door again, and his hands are on you. He’s holding your waist and then he’s pushing his fingers down into your panties, already wet, his wrist is trapped by how tight your jeans in and a low groan is trapped in his throat as he pushes his fingers deep inside, thrusting, or trying to at least. It’s a motion that’s reduced to a slick grind of his heel against your clit and curling his fingers, over and over. “Are you always going to be like this for me? Wet and hot and-”

“Yes.” It’s breathy and pulled from low in your chest when you answer, grinding your hips down on his fingers like you could somehow get more of him that way, like he isn’t already buried to the knuckle and filling your cunt so good. “Always. Every time I came to see you, when you had your hands on me-”

“Magic hands.”

Your laugh is cut short by another moan as he presses the heel of his hand against you harder, hooks his fingers inside of you faster. As the sound of your wet cunt wrapped around his fingers plays out louder. “ _Cole_.”

You say it on purpose. Moan it. Love the way it makes his breath catch in his throat. Love it even more when he presses closer, his whole body trapping you against the door. But then he’s pulling out, practically ripping his hand from your jeans and you instinctively cling to his wrist, “ _Please. Cole_ -”

He’s ripping at the button of your jeans and his fingers are soaked like they were before, scrabbling to get you out of them, to get to more of you, and you’re surprised he doesn’t just tear the whole damn thing off with how desperate his movements are. His chest is heaving against yours and you immediately see a solution to this problem and tug his hand up away from your button, the look he gives you is like a kicked puppy until you’re sucking three of his fingers into your mouth, licking yourself off of him, curling your tongue around and in between each and every finger one at a time with an obscene sucking noise. His hips thrust against yours and you can tell it’s unintentional the first time, but then he does it again and again, grinding you up against the door with with a fervor, “You’re trying to kill me.”

The sound his fingers make when you pull them from between your lips, sucking as you do, is absolutely filthy. “You love it.”

He sounds wrecked already and it makes your toes curl in your shoes.

“Yes.”

And then he slams his lips against yours, a desperate sound pulled from him, or maybe you as he pushes his tongue inside your mouth. Bites your lips. Licks across the edge of your teeth, and curls his tongue around yours. And you respond without hesitation, hands grabbing the trashed collar of his shirt, fisting in it and pulling him closer still. But he pulls back, he’s always pulling back and it always ends up worth it as he moves to your neck, licking and biting his way down until he finds a place that makes you shudder and arch your back towards him. “There?”

He curls his fingers around and down the front of your jeans pulling you closer to him and you gasp for breath.

“ _Yes_.” It’s a choked off sound, like you can barely get enough breath to speak, and it certainly feels that way as he bites down hard, then rolls his tongue over the spot, laving it with attention and soothing one ache while stoking another.

You can feel your cunt throb between your legs, baring down on nothing as he drops his hand back to the button of your jeans, and he actually does tear it off, not even seeming to notice as he drops to his knees in front of you and starts pulling your pants and you undies down your thighs. You kick off a shoe and lift a leg, helping him to get you out of your trousers but it seems that’s more than enough for him.

One leg still wearing a shoe, with your pants and panties trapped around your ankle, he hauls the other up over his shoulder and dives in like a man starved. His lips find your clit in an instant, hot and wet just like you are and he sucks. Matching your movement, his tongue a soft but firm press against your cunt, rolling over that spot that feels so damn good, kissing it, trailing down to dip his tongue inside of you and lap out your slick. Over, and over, and over.

And it’s _not_ slow.

The sensation spills over you, hot and radiating out from between your legs, washing up over you chest and it’s like he can sense it. Your need. Or maybe he needs it to, because the wonderful, talented hand not locked down on you thigh comes up to you chest, shoving under you shirt and your bra with no hesitation, grabbing you just on the right side of too hard, pinching your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger and matching the motion with his tongue on your clit.

You think his lips might be magic too.

It’s almost too much.

No. It is too much, but it feels so good as you lock both of your hands into his hair, tangling your fingers into those soft blonde strands, thinking about how even in the restaurant he still looked like he’d just been fucked within an inch of his life. And you figure you probably did too. He moans when you grab his hair. You think to yourself that he probably always will, and that you’ll always love it, your hips bucking against the sensation vibrating across your clit and you know you must be dripping down his face, soaking him.

His tongue curls into you again and his fingers drop from your chest, pulling a whine from you. A whine that’s turned into a gasp, into a moan, as he pushes two fingers back into you, all the way to the first knuckle and you know already that you’re going to come like this.

And then he fucks you, finger spilling out to the tip then slamming back in. Again and again. It’s deep and it’s hard and the sound is filthy and you can’t control the roll of your hips any more.

You anchor your hands into his hair harder, he groans against your clit, his fingers speed up, and you _grind_. You roll your hips against his face, rocking again and again, with breathy shuddering moans torn from between your lips with every press of your clit against his mouth. He doubles down, finger fucking you faster, rolling his tongue harder, then switching to long flat licks, dragging slick from where his fingers are practically wringing it out of you up to your clit, keeping a rhythm that you can’t manage with how desperate your movements are. Instinct driven and needy.

His fingers slip out of you and his hand drops from where it had been supporting your thigh on his shoulder and you whine, a broken sound that catches in your throat, “Please-”, and then they’re back in you, curling against a spot inside that feels so damn good when he’s licking your clit the way he is.

And the two of you keep it up, you riding his face and him fucking you with his tongue and his fingers. His eyes, locked so steadily on you flutter shut and he moans, like he’s savoring the best and last meal he’ll ever have and the sound is so obscene, of your cunt and his voice, the combination so wet and hot, all three of them-

Three?

Your head lolls to the side and you look down, and the next moan thats torn from your lips is ragged as you see him. He’s got his jeans and underwear pushed down his thighs and a hand around his cock, that perfect hand easily covering a cock you know you couldn’t get your fingers all the way around if you tried and he’s rolling up onto his knees, fucking into his fist in waves and you realize the slick sound is because of you. He must have slicked up his cock with the hand he was fucking you with and the mental image is so hot you lock down on his fingers like a vice, hips snapping uncontrollably and then grinding down against his mouth.

And then there’s a drip.

And another one, and you gasp and tilt your head further to the side and see his arm, see the beads of proof of how good he’s making you feel running all the way down to his elbows, falling to the floor.

That’s when you cum.

“Fuck-” You can’t say anything else, feeling like all the breath had been knocked from you as Cole pulls his fingers out, reaching up to your hip, the slick sensation of his fingers digging in somehow fanning the flames higher as he helps you ride his face, takes over, eats you out, drags the burning sensation that’s flooding your body and choking you completely, and then does it again.

Huh. So that’s a multiple orgasm.

Neat.

You can’t take any more. Your hands twitch and fall from his hair, your leg drops form his shoulder, and the one that had been holding your weight like a goddamn champion this entire time buckles and you fall. But his hand is on you and the second on comes up, and he catches you easily, lowering you down into his lap by your hips, your knees on either side of his, thighs spread wide, and that’s how you spend the next few minutes.

“Lovely.”

You’re curled up nearly in half and shaking like a leaf as you blink up at him, dazed like the room is spinning around you and you reach up and grab onto his shirt again at the collar, anchoring yourself.

“You’re _so_ lovely like this.”

Fuck.

Shuddering in waves and you throw your arms around his shoulder and slam your lips to his. And it’s _wet_. You focus back in long enough to pull back and see him, pushing past the floating feeling in your head, the warm cloud of comfy that’s settled over you, to see the entire lower half of his face shiny and dripping, soaked as it is by how damn talented that tongue can be. So you kiss him again and it’s desperate desperate, you’re shaking and biting his lip, drifting off and kissing down his jaw, up to his ear, wandering back to his lips, and the overwhelming flavor of your cunt and his lips spurs you on.

You’re still oversensitive when you roll up onto your knee and reach down grabbing his cock and pressing it against you, making his hips twitch. “Let me make you feel good”

“You already made me feel good.” Then his hands pull you down. And just like last time there’s a stretch and no resistance. Just like last time the sound is filthy, and it makes you moan. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, eyes screwed up tight as he groans.

You’re almost proud of how good you take his cock, how you stretch tight around him and pull him deep. And he probably likes it too if the way he gasps your name is any indication.

Cole rolls his hips, but you reach down and clutch his side, “My way, right?” He nods his head desperately, licking the bruises he’s definitely left, and kissing your shoulder, over and over again. So you lift your hips up, rolling forwards as you do. And then slam back down. Hard. The slapping sound of your thighs against his is dampened slightly by his jeans and you’re noticing a pattern. You aren’t worried though, you’ll get him naked eventually. And maybe even finish an entire meal without climbing him like a tree.

But of course, Cole is anything but passive. He plants his feet on the ground, leans back on his arms, and as you’re dropping down, slams his hips up against yours, burying himself even deeper, at an angle that has you seeing stars. All of them at once. You move your hands up to his shoulders, nails digging in, “ _Cole_ -” 

Like every time before it does something to him, when you gasp out his name and dig your claws in, drag them down and anchor yourself to him. He presses his hand to your chest and slams you back against the door, moving up with the motion onto his knees and you’re bent in half with how his hips trap you, spread wide, thighs straining as you try to take some of your own weight, feet scrabbling on the ground, the one in nothing but a sock desperate for some kind of purchase against the unforgiving linoleum tiles.

And this new angle is _insane_.

He fucks down into you, pushing all the air from your lungs with the intensity of it, deeper than anybody had manged before and fast, thrusting against you with obscene noises coming from between your hips and a short growl he cuts off pulled from his throat. The door bangs against the frame with every thrust and you claw your fingers into his shirt, hearing a tearing sound as you haul him closer, bending you farther and you kiss him.

It’s messy as hell, all spit and teeth, and your cum and when you moan into his mouth he licks back into yours, hot and filthy and amazing. You didn’t know you could feel like this, feel this good. Like there’s a fire burning all around you but everywhere it touches turns to pleasure instead of pain. It’s so intense and both of your breathing is ragged as hell as he saws in and out of you and you can feel yourself dripping down his thighs and onto the floor beneath the two of you, and you wonder if it’s as overwhelming for him as it is for you.

His lips trail back down you neck but you need something else, something lovely and your fingers tangle back into his hair at the root. Pull hard until it’s his back thats arched, shove your other hand against the door and push off with a loud bang as it slams back into it’s frame and drop him to the floor. Both hands going to his shoulders as you take back over, hips slapping against him, short thrusts, but fast as hell, the wet sound of you more obscene like this.

His hands go to your waist and dig in and you won’t be surprised if you find bruises there tomorrow, perfect bruises from perfect hands, and his head lolls back, eyes fluttering shut. You tug his hair again and his hips snap up, “Don’t look away.”

He makes a choking sound and his eyes snap open, locking with yours.

You shove his shirt up, dragging your nails over his abs as you do.

And then he _moans_.

And _cums_.

 _Deep_. 

His hands grab you even harder and it hurts a good hurt as he slams you down, hips grinding up into you with no rhythm at all, back arched like a bow and head rolled back. But he doesn’t break eye contact as he gasps out a ragged, “ _Y/n._ ”

You’re name’s never sounded as good as when it’s coming from him.

Also when he’s cumming but that’s not as sweet sounding.

With one last shaking gasp he drops back down to the floor, completely boneless beneath you, looking up at you with something akin to awe. “That-” That fact that you’ve literally left him speechless almost makes up for the needy ache between your thighs as you slide off of his softening cock, moving forwards and dripping a mixture of your slick and his cum onto his stomach, and as you lift on leg to roll off of him he reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of your neck, still breathing ragged as he pulls your face close to his and keeps your eyes locked. Yours wide and his hooded.

“What are you do-”

His fingers thrust into you, eased by the cum that’s stilling dripping out, and he moves his thumb up to rub you clit, tight quick circles with just enough pressure, right above the hood and you’re arching your back. Your knees and your thighs ache, but he’s so damn good with those magic hands you can’t help but ride him like this, dropping your hips up and down, grinding in circles, one of your hands moving to cling to his wrist, still slick and a bit sticky from before.

You were already so close that it doesn’t take long before you follow him over that edge, before the tight feeling between you legs snaps and floods your body with the Good Chemicals, and you’re groaning out his name and clenching down onto his fingers arythmically.

And he never breaks eye contact. He’s looking at you from underneath hooded eyes and long lashes, from that gorgeous soft hair, fucked up by your hands, which again, you are very proud of. He looks at you like you’re the sexiest thing he’s ever seen and like you must’ve come from another world, like you can’t possibly be real and here and actually with him. Like he never thought this could actually happen and he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling so he just- Floats.

When you’re done, wrung out and gasping short quick breaths, gently tugging on his wrists he gently pulls his fingers of you. Slowly. His way, and you savor every second. He smiles are you, a soft thing that’s absolutely radiating in the dark of the room, and you return it, no hint of shyness at all.

“I think I like your way.” His voice is soft, sort of floaty, but it usually is, and you love it.

And then you get an idea.

You move back between his legs. You lean down. And you lick both of your cum off his stomach.

The choking sound it pulls out of him more than makes up for the slightly salty taste. Not unpleasant, just a bit, y’know, cummy.

Cole reaches under your armpits and pulls you up like you weigh nothing then rolls you both onto your sides, half on top of you and grins into your neck. “You- You can’t be real. You can’t be lovely, you- Looking the way you do, so soft so- tasting-” It’s a slow and quiet sentence, more than you’ve ever heard him speak at one time and you pride yourself on his inability to complete a thought as he murmurs into your neck, trailing soft kisses down it before drifting into silence.

“You basically just read my mind, y;know that? Seems like you always do…”

Your fingers trail through his hair.

“… Cole?”

The softest snore escapes from between his lips, pressed against your neck and it takes all your self control not to burst out laughing. “Of _course_ you’re asleep. We’re on the floor of your office. With your pants down your thighs.”

He snores again and you snort out a laugh and try to sit up, reaching for the jeans and panties still around your ankles, but his arm wraps tighter around and pulls you close, throwing his leg over yours and you whisper, “Oh my god.” In absolute fondness, pulling his shirt up to wipe off his face with a quiet laugh.

So you settle in, turn so you’re pressed against his chest, and let yourself drift off to sleep, fingers lightly running through his hair.

It’s only in the morning when you realize you’ve pulled at least two muscles in your leg.

Good thing he’s got magic hands.


End file.
